Whispers From the Tartan
I wear a lot of linen in the summertime. Yes, it wrinkles, but that is just part of its charm in my eyes. Linen seems to possess a personality of sorts, a certain devil may care quality, that feels perfectly in sync with summer days. A white linen shirt with a strand of pearls and my hair worn up is pure midsummer comfort for me. When I don that first pair of linen trousers on the first day of June....for here in the Old South it is practically a sin to do so earlier....they feel as though the essence of summer is woven into the very fabric itself. The walks on the beach - the picnics, the rose gardens - all are best experienced in linen.
But now things have changed, for no self-respecting linen wishes to be worn past the last day of August. For several days now I have noticed that my favourite linen shirt appears almost a bit embarrassed if I reach for it in the morning. The white linen blazer positively hides from my view in the closet, no doubt fervently hoping my hand will reach for a garment more in tune with the calendar. And it may just be my imagination of course, but lately I could swear I have heard strange sounds coming from the wardrobe where all the winter clothing is stored. Whispers from the tartan, laughter from the wool. Could it be that the gloves are flexing their long fingers at the thought of forming snowballs or gripping Edward’s lead? The shawls, the hats, the boots....they all seem to have awoken en masse, already anticipating their outings... the walks in brisk air, the dinners by the fireside.
It is now September and I have to admit...the crisp white linen does look a bit tired.
Strange how that happens.
I wear a lot of linen in the summertime. Yes, it wrinkles, but that is just part of its charm in my eyes. Linen seems to possess a personality of sorts, a certain devil may care quality, that feels perfectly in sync with summer days. A white linen shirt with a strand of pearls and my hair worn up is pure midsummer comfort for me. When I don that first pair of linen trousers on the first day of June....for here in the Old South it is practically a sin to do so earlier....they feel as though the essence of summer is woven into the very fabric itself. The walks on the beach - the picnics, the rose gardens - all are best experienced in linen.
But now things have changed, for no self-respecting linen wishes to be worn past the last day of August. For several days now I have noticed that my favourite linen shirt appears almost a bit embarrassed if I reach for it in the morning. The white linen blazer positively hides from my view in the closet, no doubt fervently hoping my hand will reach for a garment more in tune with the calendar. And it may just be my imagination of course, but lately I could swear I have heard strange sounds coming from the wardrobe where all the winter clothing is stored. Whispers from the tartan, laughter from the wool. Could it be that the gloves are flexing their long fingers at the thought of forming snowballs or gripping Edward’s lead? The shawls, the hats, the boots....they all seem to have awoken en masse, already anticipating their outings... the walks in brisk air, the dinners by the fireside.
It is now September and I have to admit...the crisp white linen does look a bit tired.
Strange how that happens.
